Capitol Affairs
by twriter12
Summary: On an official trip to the White House, Michonne has an awkward run-in with Rick Grimes, D.C.'s most eligible bachelor, and the fun begins. *This is a prompt-based project of 1,000-word scenes. Updates are based on prompts received only.*
1. Maybe I'm Amazed

_This was a Richonne Writing Network AU scene challenge. Just a scene._

* * *

Michonne stood in the Roosevelt Room of the West Wing gazing at a portrait on the wall but her mind fixated on one thing — the whereabouts of her latest brief notes. Her folder had a draft, perhaps the second of eight revisions over the last twelve hours. Information was fluid due to situations on the ground; it was an unstable world. She would have to make due with her good memory and grasp of numbers, and while they never let her down, she wasn't interested in bullshitting the President of the United States.

"You appear lost, can I help?" A minor British accent interrupted Michonne's thoughts.

Her back stiffened as she stood a little taller and pushed her shoulders back. The nerve. "No, I'm where I belong," Michonne said as she looked over and locked eyes with the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations. "Mr. Grimes, ah, thank you. I'm here for the brief."

Mr. Grimes stood in the doorway with a smile on his face and a hand in his pocket, looking casual and confident. "I meant lost in thought. Need an ear? I find when I explain the topic to someone else I see the holes, see where I'm going wrong."

"Oh, sorry." She was accustomed to men thinking she didn't belong in whatever room she was in unless it was to take their lunch orders, and a woman with authority in the Department of State was like a unicorn. Sometimes she was more defensive than a situation deserved, especially after one of her male subordinates, of all people, accused her of being confused regarding comments she made during a team meeting about the upcoming Cuban elections. "No sir, I'm reviewing the overnight changes for the brief."

"You're from State." It was a statement but with a tinge of surprise.

"Yes, sir."

"Please, call me Rick. And you are?"

"Michonne Todd."

"I don't want to interrupt you," Rick said, but he stepped further into the room.

She looked down at the paper well aware of his presence and therefore incapable of focusing. Rick Grimes was something of a rock star in D.C. A gossip column mainstay, he was equally known for his stylish attire; good looks; and upbringing as he was his intelligence. It was a nationalistic uproar — similar to changing French fries to Freedom fries — when the President added him to the White House staff, but no one could deny his political skills. He navigated the hill like he lived on K Street all his life instead of Kensington.

"Violating the ceasefire within hours of the declaration creates problems for your brief. Understandable if things change between first thing this morning and the meeting."

If they weren't confusing her for an assistant, they were assuming she worked the Africa desk. "If you're talking about Sudan, I don't work African Affairs, sir." Her voice had more bite than she intended.

Her patience was thin, and not just due to professional matters. She sent her personal life into a tailspin when she finally called off her engagement. Long ago she knew she couldn't walk down the aisle to start a life with Tony but she was more concerned with the disappointment across two families and three generations than her own happiness. She looked down at her hand and noticed she was running her thumb against her ring finger. It felt odd not seeing the emerald-cut ring she pretended to love.

He cocked an eyebrow. "I see I upset you," he said. "That wasn't my intention."

She stared at him as if daring him to admit he made assumptions.

He placed his hand over his heart. "But my apologies all the same. What _is_ your area of expertise?"

"Cuba desk. I didn't know you'd be sitting in on this meeting."

"Well, I'm not. I was walking by and saw you. I assumed your area was Africa because I happen to know that's the only thing the president wants to discuss this morning. It seems there was a mix-up in communication."

Michonne pressed her lips together and stifled her groan. This new administration was not exactly ready for prime time, and that was putting it nicely. They were smart as hell, probably the most intelligent people to occupy the White House, but they didn't have much experience. If they didn't bring in the people they criticized the entire campaign — career types who knew how the sausage was made — there would be no second term. "No, I didn't get that message." She grabbed her briefcase.

"I'm sorry you had to come this way for nothing."

"It's only a mile away." She placed the file in her briefcase and secured it on her shoulder. "Thank you for the heads up."

"You're welcome." He walked past her and down the hallway.

She stood just outside the room she called her office to confirm they didn't need her at the brief and watched Rick walk away. A woman stopped him in the hall; she touched his arm three times in less than thirty seconds, tossed her head back and laughed like whatever he said was hilarious while still looking like she was in the middle of posing for a selfie. Two more women joined them and Michonne imagined this had always been his life. Intrigued by it all, she couldn't turn away. She understood the appeal but hoped she was more composed in the presence of an alluring man.

Suddenly he looked over in Michonne's direction. She diverted her eyes then headed for the exit. Rick Grimes in the flesh far exceeded the man in the glossy magazine spreads. Just before she turned the corner she dared to take another peek to find him still staring at her. How was it possible for someone to look better than airbrushing?


	2. We Meet Again

Michonne looked down at her watch then scanned the crowd. Each quarter, her section held leadership mixers on a Friday evening, usually somewhere in Foggy Bottom, and this time it was the rooftop bar at The Watergate Hotel. She recognized a few faces and knew even fewer names. Being a loner made for a painful experience outside of the office. She was on the periphery of three different groups and the most interaction she had was an awkward smile here and there as if she was in on their jokes. Once no one seemed to notice, she escaped to a corner away from the bar, partly shielded near two large potted plants, pruned to perfection.

There was a group of three women taking up space on one of the few coveted couches. Two sat on one side of the couch and the third was the arm of the couch. A couple engaged in a conversation occupied the other side of the couch. She was certain their night would end in an Uber with one of them heading back to the other's place.

"Look who's here," one woman said.

"What's he doing here?"

"I don't care. Come on," the brunette said and stood. She strutted to the bar while the other two followed the friend who was always the center of male attention.

Michonne took their spot on the couch and watched them, curious to see who grabbed their attention. She followed the direction of their gaze and it made sense. Rick Grimes stood in a small group of men surrounded by a gaggle of women pretending they hadn't positioned themselves in his direct eyesight. D.C. was like one large frat party with a side of The Bachelor.

Unlike the other men, he was still in his jacket and tie. She propped herself on the arm of the couch and watched him. Self-assured. Relaxed. Engaging. When he noticed her his eyes widened slightly and an ephemeral smile appeared on his mouth. She returned the smile then diverted her eyes. It had been three months since she'd seen him at the White House. He occupied a spot in her mind for a couple weeks but then Cuba's new constitution changes and the attacks on U.S. government officials while in Cuba quickly kicked him out of her thoughts. She had no extra room in her brain for men not named Castro.

For the next ten minutes, she practiced Chinese on her Duolingo app to take her mind off the dapper Mr. Grimes. When she looked up, it took three seconds before they locked eyes again. He placed his hand on the shoulder of a man standing next to him, said a few things, and headed her way.

"Shit," she whispered as she looked down.

"Hello," he said.

She looked up. "Hi, Mr. Grimes."

"Call me Rick. Mind if I have a seat?"

She shook her head. "No."

He smiled and raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, no, I don't mind."

He unbuttoned his jacket and sat on the couch next to her, so close she smelled an intoxicating whiff of his cologne. She smiled at the purple socks made visible when he crossed his legs toward her. He definitely had flair.

"What brought you here? You never attend these things," he said.

"What makes you think that?"

"I would have noticed." He smiled.

He was charming. Disgustingly so and then there was that accent. His charm was so natural it rolled off his tongue before he knew it. It was a curse and a gift. She knew it well, she had the same skill.

"Well, apparently you didn't," she replied. "Not to mention you're State dinners than State Department mixers."

He didn't need to know she rarely attended these things. Who could blame her? The last one was at a cigar lounge, but she couldn't resist this place. With a panoramic view featuring the entire D.C. skyline, to include The Kennedy Center, the Potomac River, and Arlington Bridge, she made an exception to her home right after work routine. Even if she didn't care about the ambiance, this is where promotions were secured, and she slowly came to accept she needed to play the game. Working hard and being the go-to person only got you so far.

The sun was setting and looked like it was sitting atop the Arlington Bridge. The sky was layered in colors. Near the water was gold, then a layer of Seafoam green then various shades of blue. But it would all disappear, swallowed up by the black of night soon.

"What are you having?" He pointed to her empty glass.

"Aperol Spritz."

"I'll be right back."

When he returned he had two glasses — her drink and a beer for himself. He placed her glass in front of her and sat back down, this time his arm resting on the back of the couch behind her. "So, tell me about yourself, Michonne."

She wasn't surprised or exhilarated he remembered her name, she wasn't clueless — he was interested. How much so, she didn't know.

"What would you like to know?" She leaned forward for her drink.

"Where are you from?"

She diverted her eyes as she stifled a well-timed yet genuine yawn.

He laughed. "Okay, where did you go to college?"

She smiled. She expected more from him, and apparently, he didn't expect he would have to do much.

"You can read that on my SF-86," she said.

"You're giving me nothing?"

"You've earned nothing."

They sat there staring at each other, smiles tugging at both their mouths until his ringing cell phone broke the spell. He watched her as he took his call, doing more listening than talking. "Be right there," he said then placed his phone back in his pocket. "Duty calls."

"Trouble?"

"The self-inflicted kind," he said with a wave of his hand. "Haven't earned it? Well, I do like a challenge."

"I'm not a challenge," she said as she watched him stand and button his jacket.

"You're right. Challenges are games. I'll see you around," he said then walked off with a smile.


	3. I'll Have What She's Having

**A/N: Hello, a reader wanted a lowkey get together for Rick and Michonne. Here you go. Hope you like it**.

* * *

It would probably be a long wait, a waitress said; even the bar didn't have an empty seat. Such a wait for lunch in an unassuming restaurant sandwiched between a generic pizza spot and a dive restaurant that battered and fried any meat you could think of served with a side order of fries. It was Saturday; she felt at ease after her getting her Vinyasa flow on that morning and her afternoon was free. Michonne's co-worker raved about this restaurant so much she waited.

"Ma'am, right this way," the hostess said with a smile.

She looked down at her wristwatch; it had been three minutes. Not what she expected when she heard she'd have to wait. The inside was even more humble than the outside with its standard brown tables and metal chairs with yellow cushions. Michonne followed her through the small space, the front of the restaurant was shaped in an L with a brown-tiled floor and gold walls adorned with pictures.

"Here you are," she extended her arm toward a table.

Michonne's mouth fell open. The waitress led her to a table with none other than Rick Grimes.

"Please, join me," he said as he stood then looked to the waitress. "Thank you, Senait."

Michonne looked over but didn't see a nametag. She waited for the waitress to leave. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you I suppose." He smiled at her.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head at her question. "I mean, have you eaten here before?"

"Often. You?"

"First time here, first time eating Ethiopian food."

He looked around the restaurant. "Seating is limited. I was presumptuous. I saw you standing over there waiting. Would you like to join me?"

It was then she noticed they still stood; him waiting on her but she was caught up in his damp hair curlier than usual. Instead of a suit, he was in a white-collared shirt with dark blues jeans and boat shoes. He was even wearing a belt. Not enough men did that these days. A rush of adrenaline tingled through her body when he touched her arm.

"Thank you."

There were worse things than sharing a meal with Rick Grimes and it meant not having to navigate the menu alone. She was happy she opted for a sundress and a hint of makeup instead of tossing on a clean pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt after showering at the gym.

"So you come here often, you said?"

"Probably six or seven times a month."

Two cells phones and a pair of Wayfarers sat on the table near the wall and in the center of the table was a peony-covered teapot. It seemed out of place. She glanced around the restaurant, there was an eclectic style. A little of this, a little of that but it came together well. She was thankful there were no fake plants gathering dust in the corners and on high shelves. No matter how good the food, she refused to eat in places like that.

The waitress brought another teacup. It was teal while Rick's was coral. "Try the house tea," he said as he poured for her. "It's great."

She was a certified tea enthusiast. Matcha, Genmaicha, Oolong, Pu-erh Tuocha. She took a sip and smiled at the lingering taste of cinnamon.

"So, what made you come here if you've never tried it?"

"Recommendation."

"And alone? Good for you. That's no surprise. You went to college over one thousand miles away from home. Tell me about your time at Colgate?"

She smiled. She knew he had little interest in her collegiate experience. He did a little homework and wanted her to know, hoping it would get him a little credit. "Probably no different from St. Andrews or Oxford." She also did her homework which required nothing more than a quick look on Wikipedia.

"I imagine so."

"I see someone got ahold of my SF-86. I'm sure your boss wouldn't like you breaking the law."

"I have a clearance."

"Yes, but there are two major tenets to accessing information. One, you must have proper clearance, and-"

"Two, need to know," he said. "There was definitely a need. Do you live around here?"

"I'm sure you already know that too."

He leaned back in his chair and held up his hands in innocence. "That's a bridge too far even for me. There is a fine line between romantic persistence and stalking, and the latter is only appealing in bad fiction."

"Romantic, huh?" He smiled and it could be the death of her. It was beyond disarming not to mention his intense, unwavering eye contact. "Columbia Heights. And you?"

"Georgetown."

That wasn't a surprise. Beautiful, tony, historic yet modern — it suited him.

She was an adventurous enough eater, willing to try anything once. So when Rick ordered Doro Wat and Ful medames she was game and she wasn't disappointed. Flavors exploded in her mouth.

"I didn't take you for the spicy type." She took a sip of water but noticed he didn't appear affected.

"Love it," he said.

"How did you find out about this place?"

"My mother. She introduced me to a love of food. She traveled all over the world." His maternal grandfather was a former Secretary of State. "I think it's why she was comfortable moving to England after my father's time here was complete."

"So your parents met here in the U.S.?"

"They met in South Africa. Both on vacation, but yes, my dad was working here in D.C."

Over lunch, he told her about his life, most of which the world knew, but he sprinkled in stories of his childhood growing up in England with summers in Alexandria, Virginia with his mother's parents. She was drawn to every word. He was a natural storyteller and she could listen to him speak forever, but the waitress put a damper on the mood when she walked over with the bill.

She turned it face down in the center of the table. "Take your time," she said with a smile before heading off.

As she reached for the bill, he pulled it in front of him. "So, did you like it?" He asked as he pulled his wallet out and tossed a few bills on the table without bothering to look at the total.

Cash. What a concept these days.

"I did. Next time I'll treat you to my favorite place." Next time? She didn't realize she was about to say that until it tumbled out of her mouth.

He tinkered with one of his phones then handed it to her. "Here, put your number in there."

She took it from his hand and there was a tingle down her spine at the touch of his fingers on her skin. She took a deep breath and exhaled, calming her nerves, as she entered her name and number then handed it back to him. He looked at it, tinkered again and then looked up at her with a smile.

"Can I give you a lift home?" He held the door for her as they left.

"No, I'm not that far. A 10-minute walk will do me good after all that food you forced me to eat."

He laughed. "Forced?" He nodded. "Sure. Have a good day, Michonne."

"You too, Rick," she said and watched him put on his sunglasses and walk away. She grabbed her phone and earbuds to listen to a little music as she walked and noticed a text message.

 _Can't wait to see your place. -R_

Surely he meant her favorite restaurant but her mind thought about her apartment. This was Rick Grimes, that's probably what he meant too. Not just yet, she mused as she headed home.


	4. This Is What I Do

_atm0000 mentioned seeing them in a meeting together. Here you go. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

The Truman Building was like some holdover relic from the Cold War era. It was a buff-colored limestone and nondescript. The last renovation was already eighteen years ago, but it felt like it had been thirty years because all things government was a day late and a dollar short. By the time they got approval, funding, and then finished a renovation it was already time for another. Despite its less than glamorous facade, there was no other place Michonne would rather be. Including now when her every word was challenged in one of the meeting rooms.

"The United States would reward an oppressive regime," Rick said as he stared at her from across the conference table.

It wouldn't be the first time, she wanted to say. They'd been engaged in a back and forth that no one else dared to interrupt. Everyone else in the room was tense, but Rick didn't seem to notice or maybe he didn't care.

"My place is to provide the information, not make policy Mr. Grimes."

"But I'd like your opinion anyway," he said and leaned back in his chair smoothing out his paisley tie.

"We shouldn't look at this as a zero-sum game. We'd be helping to liberate a nation that has been in the dark far too long in part because of a sanctions program that does not work," Michonne said. "Besides, each year the U.S. is responsible for millions of dollars in remittances and almost all the stores are state-owned. We're already supporting the regime."

The last time she heard from him was lunch at the Ethiopian restaurant where he asked for her number, which he had yet to use. That was almost two weeks ago. Things were stressful in the Marquand Administration; the president was notorious for being too honest.

"They attacked over two dozen American diplomats," Rick said as he stared at her.

"Yes, they did."

The room went quiet as they silently appreciated the other's performance.

"Well, I think that's all for now," someone said. "We have a lot of information to take back to the president."

They continued to stare at each other as people around them stood, some leaving immediately and others chatting. As Michonne stood and gathered her briefing material, she was keenly aware of Rick heading her way. Frankly, she would have been shocked if he didn't want to prolong their interaction.

"I didn't know you would be at this meeting," she said.

"My morning was unusually free."

She eyed him. "So what are you doing here?"

"Entering relations with Cuba is risky." He slid a hand in his pocket.

"You mean from a political standpoint." She shrugged.

"You don't think it should matter," he said with a nod.

"That's not my concern."

"Yes, but it has to be someone's, and it's mine. We make a dog's dinner of this and we'll lose Florida during the midterms."

She smiled at his terminology. "Yeah, I get it."

"But you don't care about that."

"What happened to do the right thing because it's the right thing? Not because you want something in return?" She tossed the president's campaign rhetoric at him.

"No one likes it, but everything is political." He narrowed his eyes. "You really know your stuff."

"It's my job." She dropped her pen, and she juggled her belongings to free up a hand.

"Not everyone is great at their job," he said as he handed her the pen.

When his fingers grazed her skin, it sent a shiver down her spine and she could tell by his reaction that her reaction to his touch was obvious.

She cleared her throat. "I've been studying Cuba since I was 18 years old. It was all basic information and analysis."

"But you made it sound extraordinary. You're intriguing." He cleared his throat then spoke louder. "You were right," he said as a woman ambled past them, "I like what you said about entrepreneurship. Developing the culture of start-ups on the island could be monumental."

She smiled and nodded as her eyes wandered the room. "What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You argued with me because it was fun, you call me intriguing and then when someone is in earshot its political mumbo-jumbo."

"Rick," a man called over to him.

"Excuse me," she said heading for the door, thankful for the escape from the conversation she started but wasn't prepared to have.

At the elevator, she stood to the side as a few people got off. When Rick joined her, she was shaken but not completely surprised. The smell of his cologne was obvious but not overwhelming.

"This elevator is going up," she said.

"I'm just here for the company."

"Oh." She briefly closed her eyes, chastising herself for not having a better come back.

"I rarely get to experience the thrill of the chase."

"I'm sorry? The thrill of the chase?"

"Or maybe I should say courting. Men enjoy it as well. In this town, I've yet to ask a woman on a proper date. They always suggest it before I have a chance."

She looked over at him. So, they were going there. Admitting to each other there was something between them. That it was more than friendly, witty banter between two government workers.

"So you don't like aggressive women?"

"I like a woman who can be aggressive but not an aggressive woman. Does that make sense? Maybe it's a distinction without a difference. I like wondering if she's interested and that feeling when you realize she does. The flirting-"

"Flirting?"

He smiled. "You smile at all men like that?"

"No."

"Good."

The elevator stopped before they made it to her floor and two people got. Rick briefly pressed his hand against her lower back. "See you soon," he whispered before getting off the elevator.


	5. Strike One

A response to prompts from **Bwy5** and **Philly Girl52**. I remind you these are prompt-filled snapshots and while I try to make them related, this is not a multi-chapter fiction that has a pace beyond the particular scene.

* * *

It was a beautiful Saturday; the sun was out but not blistering; the sky was blue, and the clouds were picture-perfect. Michonne sat at her small backyard table underneath the umbrella with a tall glass of lemonade, a bowl of popcorn, and various reading options. The smell of her neighbor's BBQ tempted her, the popcorn and lemonade an unfit replacement. She was so engrossed in a book, the ring of her phone breaking up the instrumental jazz playing through her Bluetooth speaker caused her to jump. Her heart raced and when she looked at the phone and saw it was Rick calling her it raced a little faster.

She saved her spot with a bookmark and picked up the phone staring at his name before finally answering. "Hello?"

"Hi, I rang the bell but no answer. Did you have to leave?"

"I'm home. I'll be right there."

He called her earlier asking if he could stop by since he was near; there was something he wanted to discuss in person.

"Hi." He smiled. It was charming as usual. He wore a red Nationals baseball cap. Ever the center of attention for the most mundane things, there was an article on one of those lifestyle websites about his love of baseball caps and how sexy he looked in them. The writer went into a fashion lesson and detailed how baseball caps weren't as popular in England.

She had the time to take him in because he was busy doing the same to her like he did whenever they met. When his eyes made it back to her face, she greeted him. "Hi." She stood in the doorway. "So what was so important you needed to see me?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure, follow me. I was out back." She looked over her shoulder. "Or does it require being indoors as well?"

"No, it does not."

She led him down the four steps to the backyard.

"This is nice," he said.

It was small, but it was hers and semi-private thanks to the wooden fence; the neighbors on either side could still see down into her backyard from their second levels. When she moved in the place was a disaster, but she saw the potential. Besides, finding an affordable place to live in D.C. meant DIY.

"It was my spring and summer project," she said as she looked around. Thanks to HGTV, YouTube and the folks at Home Depot the before and after was monumental. She laid down a few squares of sod though most of the backyard was covered in rocks.

She tied two lines of string lights to the small tree in the corner and the other ends were tied to the house. There were two rose bushes and a tomato tree against the wooden fence, and her herbs were in garden boxes she built attached to the wooden patio where her prized lemon tree sat in a large pot.

"Jazz?" He asked. "You're a fan?"

"New interest."

There was a silence as they sat and listened. She didn't know the artists; she found a popular playlist on Spotify.

"What are you reading?" He pointed at the book on the table.

She held it up so he could read the book cover for himself.

" _A Sport and a Pastime_ ," he mumbled. "Salter. Such precise prose."

"So what do I owe this visit?"

"I'd like to take you out sometime."

She stared at him for a moment. There was no hesitation, no hint of nerves. It was probably just that easy for him. "Thank you, but I'm gonna have to say no," she said. She almost laughed when she saw his reaction. He nearly swallowed his tongue. No wasn't a word he heard. Hell, even men fawned over him.

"May I ask why not? I thought there was a connection."

"I thought the same," she said as she moved the bowl of popcorn off the newspaper. She turned it over and splashed on the style page was a picture of Rick and an unnamed woman out a few days prior. The way she stared up at him while his hand was on her hip screamed of intimacy.

He picked up the paper and rolled his eyes.

"While you were at the State Department telling me I intrigued you, was this date already on your schedule for that same night?"

He tossed it back on the table. "It was. I don't know what to say. I'm not sure what the rules are when you've just met someone and you're interested but you've never gone on a proper date."

"No rules, per se." She didn't expect monogamy after a couple of dates let alone before the first, she just didn't need the grand gestures if she would simply be one in a rotation. Dating was one thing, maybe she was wrong to believe courting was another, and it meant not going out with a different woman every week. Or maybe she was jealous that while he was out with every other Hannah, Cameron — and the latest — Minka, she sat home alone.

"Is this a hard no?"

"What do you mean?"

"If I ask again, will the answer always be the same?" He held his breath.

"I wouldn't say that."

He smiled.

"It's not a game either."

He looked down. "I could never see you in such a way."

"And I'm not telling you not to date." She breathed deeply. "It's hard to explain what I'm feeling at this moment. I have no hold on you, but I have expectations. And what those are in this situation," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. " Even I'm not sure."

"I respect your feelings and your honesty." He stood. "And your uncertainty. I better get going. I'll see you around."

She walked him to the gate and watched him until he disappeared.


	6. Cool Off Period

Thanks to **kiaschronicles** for the prompt. If you're not listening to Two Dead Chicks you're missing out. Also, I'll be on hiatus for NaNoWriMo (that includes my story Haunted) but I'll continue to accept prompts and will be back to posting in December.

* * *

Last lap, Michonne said to herself but she turned and pushed off the wall of the pool and kept swimming. She had been saying the last lap for the past three laps but she couldn't drain this energy from her body no matter how many laps she swam. The reason for her scattered mind was obvious. It was him. Maybe it would help if she stopped thinking about Rick but it was hard to get him out of her mind.

The last lap, she said to herself again as she thought about how things played out with Rick earlier that day. When he left her house, she replayed their conversation in her head a thousand different ways, kicking herself for not saying certain things, and cringing at some things she said. She hoped she hadn't appeared needy and pathetic. He didn't owe her anything, especially not a commitment. Maybe what she said wasn't worth mentioning until they had been out on a couple of dates.

One last lap, she said to herself. She knew from experience when you settled at the beginning of a relationship there was nowhere to go but down. She knew what happened when you pretended to be the cool woman, unbothered by whatever a man did. It became hard to set boundaries you willingly erased in the first place to gain a man's interest.

One last lap she said to herself because she could still see every little thing about him. The dark blue jeans that hung off his hips just right showing his lean frame. The baseball cap pulled down to just above his eyes. The playful smirk of his mouth that made her wonder what his lips felt like. And that's all it took before her mind drifted to what other things would feel like. She had a feeling she'd never experience those things because Rick Grimes probably didn't handle rejection well. Why would he work to turn a no into a yes when he could have his choice of sure things?

Once her arms and legs felt like noodles, she broke the surface of the water and gasped. She placed her arms on the edge as she caught her breath. As she removed her goggles, she saw movement in the corner. The lighting wasn't the best but she could make out a figure headed her way. She contemplated swimming away from the edge and toward the center of the pool just in case this was one of those crazies she watched on ID channel.

"I didn't think you'd ever stop," a male voice said.

The accent put her mind at ease. She looked up at Rick standing in front of her shirtless in a pair of blue swim trunks. His stomach was flatter than she imagined, his arms muscled, and she could see a smattering of chest hair.

"Michonne," he said with a laugh. "Good evening."

She removed her swim cap, biting back a smirk and a smartass comment. It was obvious from the tone of his voice that as he watched her she was just another woman to flirt with, to use his skills to make her surrender. As she climbed out of the pool, she shivered not just as the cold air hit her wet skin, but when he gripped her arm at the elbow to assist her. "Thanks."

"I didn't know you were a member of the club," he said, following her as she grabbed her towel. "I've never seen you."

She didn't need eyes in the back of her head to know he checked her out in her one-piece suit. She placed a leg on the bleacher and dried it off and then the other. "I'm not," she said.

As much as she loved it, there was no way she was paying almost two hundred dollars a month for a gym membership. The YMCA on W Street serviced her needs but a personal trainer friend gave her guest passes from time to time, and while it was a little farther than her gym, it _was_ Equinox, and they had those awesome cold eucalyptus towels; she would never turn down an invitation. When she wanted a late night swim or a little luxury after a grueling day she made her way here.

They stood face to face alternately looking at each other in synchronized perfection. When she looked away, he took her in. When he looked around the pool, she watched him.

"You have great form," he said as he looked her up and down just subtle enough to not be grotesque.

"Pardon?" She said, giving him a gentle ribbing because she knew he could take it.

He smiled. "Your swim form, not a lot of splash."

"Thank you."

"You always work out this late?"

"No. I was restless. I like to swim it off." She discovered swimming relaxed her during her freshmen year in college. While some of her classmates engaged in binge-drinking or put on the freshmen fifteen and then some thanks to the always plentiful junk food, she did laps in the pool.

"Same. My mind is all over the place and it's easier on my knee than all the running."

From the Boston Marathon to the Marine Corps Marathon, he was a runner — everyone knew that. The press loved taking pictures and video of him running with the president during the campaign. _Runner's Magazine_ did a flashy profile on politicians who run but Rick was on the cover. There was an increase in new female runners in D.C. after those pictures. That's what she was dealing with. The man inspired women to run.

"Well, I'll let you get to it," she said as she slid her feet in her flip-flops.

"It was good seeing you, or maybe we can grab a drink next door."

The Ritz-Carlton was next door, and it had a great bar. She wanted to accept the invitation, but she told him earlier that day he would have to work for it and making him wait ten hours then drinking mere feet away from a gorgeous hotel room wasn't much work. "And be the reason you missed your swim and didn't clear your head? I can't be the reason you give the president bad advice. Besides, it's late, and that swim wore me out."

He nodded. "I understand."

"Enjoy your swim," she said then walked toward the locker room.

"One of these days I will get you to say yes," he called after her.

So he was up for more than an easy yes? It took a moment to wipe the smile off her face before she could turn around to give him a stoic look. That smirk was back on his face. "I hope you can."

Just before she made it through the door she heard him.

"I know I can."


	7. SOS

_Prompt Request from **Junkyard Cat**. And thanks for your comments._

* * *

Michonne tried her friends and she was desperate enough to try a couple of co-workers. The ones she made contact with were busy and she refused to interrupt their plans even if she was in a bind. She scrolled back to his name and stared at it. Rick. Her head fell back against the headrest of her car, which was nothing more than a 3,500-pound paperweight in its current state. She had contemplated it a couple of times but didn't think she was that desperate. But he lived somewhere in Georgetown and she was that desperate.

She didn't think he'd answer for a couple of reasons. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, why would he be sitting around doing nothing? If not working, she could see him at some yacht party or gala. And really, the audacity to ask for a favor after turning him down. She imagined he'd see her name and decline her call, but to her surprise he answered, he was available, and he was on his way.

When he turned the corner she climbed out of her car. He was in a black T-shirt and blue jeans and despite the black sunglasses she knew it was him by the strut. She loved the way he walked, especially in jeans. He probably thought the sunglasses hid him, but they made him stand out. He looked mysterious and sexy. He was half a block away and already she was struggling with her attraction.

"What are you doing in my neck of the woods?"

"Stachowski's."

"One of my favorite places."

"I didn't know you lived this close."

"About a mile." He removed his sunglasses and hung them on his shirt. "So, you don't happen to know the problem do you?"

"I don't know. I came out and it wouldn't start. Do you think it's the battery? I just got a new one."

He sat in the driver's seat and attempted to start the car. "New battery, car won't turn over, and nothing lights up. It's the alternator. You don't happen to have a digital volt ohmmeter do you?"

"A what?"

He smiled. "It's not a complicated or expensive problem. Remove the electrical connections, unbolt the brackets, and get to the serpentine belt."

It sounded complicated to her and none of that made sense. "I never would have thought you knew how to do anything besides put gas in your tank."

His eyes widened. "Really? I'm here helping you and you're giving me grief." He smirked at her.

She laughed out of embarrassment. She hadn't meant to say that aloud, it just slipped out. He genuinely shocked her with his quick diagnosis of the problem. "I'm sorry and grateful."

"If it were up to my father, the only thing I could do would be to call AAA for you. But my grandfather, my mother's father, was the quintessential American man's man. He thought there were certain things men should be able to do. That included handling minor car problems."

"I'll have to thank your grandfather," she said.

"If I could, I would as well. He made it possible for me to help a beautiful damsel in distress and prove to her that some of her initial thoughts about me may not be accurate." He looked up at her and held her attention until she couldn't take it anymore and looked away. He chuckled and and popped the hood.

She stood off to the side and watched as he came up with a temporary solution that would get her car moving long enough to take to a mechanic, though if he weren't traveling out of town in a couple of days he'd do it himself, he said.

"Oh, your hands." She grabbed her purse out of the car and offered him hand sanitizer.

"Thank you." He watched her as she squeezed it into his hands.

"Thank you again for helping me. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"Why wouldn't I?"

She looked down and played with her hands before looking up and down the street.

"Oh." He leaned against her car. "Because you refuse to go on a date with me and bruised my ego? That is a good point."

"I..." She stood next to him and leaned back against the car so he couldn't look directly into her eyes or see the discomfort. He remained silent, allowing her to squirm like a worm on a hook. It's not that she wasn't attracted or that she didn't find him interesting, but it was about her and a lot of things that had nothing to do with him. "I..."

"I can't imagine not helping you when you need me. Besides, I plan on getting something in return."

Was this where he'd ask her on a date and she'd feel obligated to say yes? "Like what?"

He pointed at the deli. "What did you get?"

"The 4 Meat Grinder."

"My favorite. I'll take half. You can't eat that entire thing by yourself."

"You don't know me very well."

He leaned toward her and nudged her with his shoulder and remained in her space, leaning on her. "No, but I'm trying desperately."

He left her rattled more times than she'd like to admit. "Well, I can eat the whole thing, but," she said and pushed herself off the car and broke their contact, putting much needed space between them. "You did save me so for that so I owe you."

He stared at her and smiled. Silence hung between them. He stepped forward. "I have a lovely stout that will go well with it. My place is close by and you can park there."

He was inviting her back to his place. She froze while he walked to the passenger's side and climbed in. She didn't think he would expect sex, she believed the sandwich was enough, but going back to his place would send mixed signals, wouldn't it?

She got in the car with every intention of dropping him off and leaving.

"I want to get to know you at whatever pace you're comfortable with despite already knowing what I want. I'm patient and I'm confident you're worth it."

He wanted her. He made it known. There was something unnerving about a man that didn't play games with his desire for you. It was refreshing but it intimidated the shit out of her.


	8. Meet Me at the Mistletoe

In the spirit of the holidays, this is a prompt from **kiaschronicles**. Merry Christmas everyone. If you haven't done so, you can read my 2-part Christmas story starring these two: Christmas is For Lovers.

* * *

She stood near a window and watched him from across the room. It wasn't by chance Michonne and Rick were guests at the same Christmas party. Their paths, before they met that day in the West Wing, never crossed, especially not in social settings, and definitely not at a posh gathering at a winery just outside the district. But since that fateful Saturday she ran into at the restaurant and they had an impromptu lunch date, he was ever-present. When she wasn't running into him, he was running through her mind. She had to admit she liked it when he invaded her mind and her imagination went into overdrive.

The winery was decked out with Christmas decorations like garland, wreaths, red and gold bows and strings of sparkling white lights crisscrossed above them. Waiters wearing crisp white shirts and black pants floated through the room with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

The band which had been on a break, made their way back to the stage as she and Rick locked eyes. Actually, they locked eyes several times but there was a world of people between them in the room. She smiled, amused that they all seemed to want his attention, preventing him from making his way to her. The anticipation of when he'd finally make his way sent bundles of nervous energy running through her body.

He made a playful show of frustration as the man standing before him had a grip on Rick's arm as they talked. _Save me_ , Rick mouthed to her. She cast her eyes downward as a smile played on her lips. He was the reason she was here. She knew it the instant she opened the cream and gold invitation with the beautiful calligraphy and the envelope with burgundy sealing wax.

She watched as Rick pulled a young man passing by into the conversation, said a few words and then left.

"Finally," he said with a sigh when he stood in front of her.

"That poor guy over there," she said as she nodded at the young man who was throwing daggers at Rick.

He looked over his shoulder and laughed. "Graham. I outrank him." He turned his attention back to her. "I've been trying desperately for this moment. Everyone wanted to talk about everything from Syria to book recommendations." He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned in and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

"Ah, the famous Rick Grimes."

He groaned. "Don't you start. What I love about you is that you don't buy into that."

She did, a little. It was hard not to, and it was intimidating even if she knew her own worth.

His hands slid down her arms, her skin tingling at his fleeting touch. His fingers lingered on hers and for a moment she thought he may hold her hands before he dropped his hands to his sides. But he remained close. She could smell the heady scent of his cologne and wished she could bury her face in his neck. There was the slightest shit-eating grin on his face and she knew he caught her lusting over him.

"This place looks like something out of a Vogue spread." Her head was on a swivel taking in the room she already admired for most of the night. It was all to avoid the hypnotic blue eyes that seemed to see what she wanted to hide.

"You fit in perfectly." He took her in from head to toe. "That dress is amazing."

She smiled and looked down at her rose gold sequin dress. It was short enough to show off her legs but still a respectable length. "Thank you."

"You're practically glowing."

She had her friend Roxane to thank for that who insisted she get her makeup done by a professional makeup artist instead of following a YouTube tutorial. The band played, and she silently sang along with the lead singer.

 _Meet me at the mistletoe_  
 _You're glowing like these Christmas lights_  
 _You're the Belle of the ball tonight_

"May I have this dance?" He held out his hand.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"Right here."

She looked around; they were off to the side of the room and away from most of the guests. He sensed her moment of weakness and pulled her against him. He whirled her around then pulled her closer as they settled into an easy sway to the beat of the music.

"And here I was thinking you move on the one and three." She smiled.

"What does that mean?" He smiled.

"Nothing." She smiled back. "You're a good dancer."

"Lessons. My mother insisted."

She could feel his chin against her head. His hand slid up, and she shivered at the touch his hand on her bare back. Her eyes closed as she exhaled slowly. He pulled back, and they locked eyes and what may have meant to be a glance seemed to be permanent. Neither seemed interested in or capable of breaking it. A heaviness took over the moment. She wasn't sure if they were even dancing to the beat of the song; the only thing she could hear was the beating of her heart in her ears. Something was happening, and it was a tad scary but completely exhilarating. He ran his thumb up and down her back and she stifled the urge to moan by biting her lip.

She watched as his gaze shifted an imperceptible bit from her eyes down to her mouth. She held her breath knowing he was thinking of kissing her. Would he? Here in front of people? As he leaned in, she closed her eyes and waited. The touch of his lips on hers was jarring and, at the moment for as long as it lasted, the only thing that mattered in the world. He was more than a peck but not the kiss that made a woman's clothes fall off. It was nice. Sweet. Appropriate.

She smiled at him then glanced around the room. "What made you sure not asking was the way to go?"

"We're standing near the mistletoe. It's a rule."

She looked over her shoulder. "I thought it was under the mistletoe."

"Under, near. Never get caught up in specifics."

She smiled.

The playful smile disappeared. "And I know if given the chance to say no, you would."

He was right. She wasn't sure if that unnerved her or made her happy. It took two seconds to realize it was both. She liked that it was both. "And you know me?"

"I don't. But I know you well enough to know whatever the reasons you hold me at arm's length, a lack of attraction isn't one. Am I right?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"That sounds so much nicer than no." The timbre of his voice sent chills down her spine.

He may have thought that was easy to admit but in doing so she wondered if she could ever say no to him again.


End file.
